


St. Jimmy's Dance

by Senket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Music, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=39051979#t39051979">this prompt</a>: <i>Moriarty does household chores himself. To make it less boring he likes to listen to rock (idk, Foo Fighters maybe?). Gimme descriptions of him rocking out while vacuum cleaning, dusting, etc.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	St. Jimmy's Dance

Jim Moriarty is cleaning.

Fucking cleaning, that’s right.

Jim is a consulting criminal. His influence stretches across the globe. No one has a more organized mind. Sherlock Holmes comes close, but he can only follow. Mycroft Holmes comes closer, but he’s stagnant.

But Jim has this little problem- cluttered spaces make his mind cluttered. And he _hates_ it when he doesn’t know where something’s gone because someone else moved it. So he cleans his own flat, a loft high above the ancient maze that is central London.

Jim Moriarty cannot stand to be bored any more than he can stand clutter. He’ll give up nearly anything to that aim. So he listens to music when he cleans- his sound system is first class and he turns it up until his ears ring, fast base pounding in his chest and down his legs as he bobs his head, skidding sideways and moonwalking backwards as he shifts his laptop, his books, throwing back his head and laughing.

In these moments Jim rarely dances with his whole body but his feet are everywhere. He’s just started vacuuming when the next song comes on, more pop than his typical rock but _so so good_ for dancing. He groans, rolls his shoulders back, thinks about someone else’s fingers on his throat, someone else’s hand squeezing his thigh.

He’s not thinking about anyone in particular, just sensation, god he _wants_. (He wants the way he always wants, ferally and without restraint.) He laughs again, his right foot making a complicated toe-heel-toe maneuver. He slides sideways with the violins, snakes down until he’s crouching and rolls back up hips first.

Jim pushes the vacuum forward, stretching his arm, body tipping forward. He pulls it back in a sharp move, twirling it in front of him once before pushing it in the opposite direction.

He tumbles after it when it tangles in its own cord, twists to the side to grapevine, spins on his heel as he scoops the cord up and passes it over his head. He pushes a hand through his hair, tapping the beat out with his foot, bobbing his head.

Stilling as the song changes, a sly smile spreads across his lips. He tips his head back, transferring the beat to a single finger tapping against the handle of his vacuum- he pulses forward with his chest and head when the drums come in, feeling his legs shake with the force of it. Hard guitar drives him forward, eyes closed as he glides forward and back, singing low and strung out, sliding down, pitch unsteady. “It's bugging me, grating me and twisting me around. Yeah, I'm endlessly caving in and turning inside out.”

Despite the hard beat he moves like a snake, eyes cracking half-open as he stares at nothing. His voice is louder and sharper on the chorus- he licks his lips, slipping his free hand under the line of his expensive suit, tracing his stomach through buttoned vest and thin cream shirt. “’Cause I want it now, I want it now! Give me your heart and your soul. And I'm breaking out; I'm breaking out, last chance to lose control!”

Power chords come in and he jumps, wildly beating his head forward with a manic grin.

He opens his mouth to sing when the sound stops suddenly, nothing but the low hum of an expensive vacuum and the buzzing in his ears.

Jim straightens automatically- after a short moment he unwinds very deliberately, shoulders rolling backwards and his hips canting sideways, tracing the line of his ribs with fluttering hands.

“Aren’t you embarrassed someone will see you?”

“My darling Sebastian,” he drawls, licking his lips so they’re glossy with saliva as he turns. Sebastian’s hands will do _just fine_. “Who might ever see me but you?”

He pads forward, stopping just inside the sniper’s personal space. They’re not touching but they might as well be, electricity crackling between them. Sebastian Moran looks far from impressed but Moriarty knows an act when he sees one.

The man’s finger is still on the pause button; Jim presses his own fingers against the inside of Sebastian’s wrist, gliding up his palm, stroking around to the back of his hand and down the length of Moran's fingers, briefly lacing their hands together. He pauses for a moment to flash a miniature smirk before _pushing_.

Music crashes down around them, through them, vibrating the air. Jim steps a fraction of an edge closer, eyes half-lidded as he catches Moran’s gaze and holds it, pulling his hands away to trace across his torso instead, undoing his tie with one hand and unbuttoning his vest with the other. He’s still smirking as he sings, cool as a snake, voice dipping lower as he analyzes the heat in Moran’s gaze.

That man has killed _tigers_ \- Jim has a skin at the foot of his bed that proves it, a neat hole in its forehead. He knows perfectly well a proper pelt should have no damage, but it makes a point that gets him all hot under the collar.

“Yeah it's holding me, morphing me and forcing me to strive.” He rocks to the beat, slow and careful not to touch, baring his throat. Moran’s fingers twitch at his side. He’s _wining_. He always does. “To be endlessly cold within and dreaming I'm alive.”

And finally, finally, shedding his jacket, his vest, leaving his tie hanging open, he presses himself against the taller man, loosely throwing his arms around Sebastian’s neck, unapologetically rolling his hips, undulating against the sturdy body, tipping his head back, eyes fluttering closed. “Cause I want it now, I want it now! Give me your heart and your soul.”

Sebastian Moran growls and he feels it in his chest, vibrating and melting into the hard beat of the song. He laughs while he sings, pushing forward to breath the words against the other man’s lips, challenge sparking in his eyes. “I'm not breaking down, I'm breaking out, last chance to lose control!”

For what’s the fun if there’s no challenge? Guitar takes over again and Jim loses himself rocking to the beat despite the fact that he’s still leaning into a strong body. A grin stretches across his face and he laughs as he presses a palm against a warm neck, taking the man’s hand with his other. Parodying a slow dance, he sways back and forth for a few counts before twirling himself out. Sebastian grips his hand hard and reels him back in with a sharp movement, an arm wrapping around his waist and crushing him in close.

Sebastian moves to kiss him but Jim tilts his head to the side, singing almost frenzied as he shouts out through his laughter. “I want you now, I want you now, I feel my heart implode. And I'm breaking out  
escaping now, feeling my faith erode!”

Moran growls and throws him into the wall, catches up to him before he has time to blink the stars away, pins Jim to the wall with a hard chest and muscled legs.

Sebastian grips his jaw between finger and thumb, forcing his mouth open, kissing hard and rough. Jim doesn’t have time to catch his breath between one song and the next, clawing at the man’s shoulders. Sebastian responds by picking him up and slamming him against the wall again. Jim laughs into the kiss, wrapping his legs around the man’s body, groans when strong fingers close in around his throat, squeeze in warning.

Jim’s hips buck involuntarily- Sebastian growls savagely, replacing his fingers with his mouth, sinking his teeth into Moriarty’s neck. Jim grinds their hips together, rolling his head back as much as possible, grinning ferally.

“Dance, dance, we're falling apart to half time. Dance, dance, and these are the lives you'd love to lead.  
Dance, this is the way they'd love, if they knew how misery loved me!”

Sebastian tears his shirt open but he really can’t care. He has enough money to buy all of Westwood in one go. Hands are _everywhere_ and Jim does absolutely nothing but goad the man into violence, thrusting, squirming, arching, dragging his fingernails down sweat-slicked skin, digging his heels into the small of the man’s back.

“Why don’t you show me a little bit of spunk you’ve been saving for his mattress... love.”

He’s not absolutely how but Sebastian manages to twist Jim’s trousers and pants down to his thighs without unpinning him, digging in his own back pocket for lube while he grips Jim’s erection sharply, applying just enough pressure to get him to yelp in pain; it only turns Jim on more, and he’s practically shrieking with laughter when Sebastian, apparently angry more than turned on (or is there a difference?) sinks his teeth into Jim’s right shoulder.

He howls where the first finger drives into him and sort of loses his mind there. Sebastian is ruthless, grinding against Jim, thrusting one (then two then three) fingers into him in a relentless rhythm, jerking him off just as roughly as he grinds his hips into the shorter man.

Jim moans and twists, hips jerking arhythmically, torn between sensations; Sebastian chooses for him, rubbing a thumb against the leaking slit on the head of his penis as he withdraws his fingers.

Sebastian pins Jim with his upper body as he pulls his hips just far enough away to undo his belt and open his zip, pouring lube into his palm one-handed before tossing the tube on the floor and stroking himself to slickness roughly.

Jim barely has time to catch his breath before Sebastian is lifting him up into a better position, pushing into him with slow agony, the sniper gritting his teeth. The dangerous expression on Sebastian’s face does indescribable things to Jim’s stomach (and libido.)

Sebastian stills once he’s fully seated, panting against Moriarty’s neck. Growling, whining, Jim tries to buck his hips- Moran holds him immobile, grinning like a predator. “Yeah, that’s how it feels, you bastard.”

Jim hisses unintelligibly, digging his nails into the sniper’s shoulder.

Moran finally deigns to move when the song changes again- with every thrust he manages to push deeper, always at just the _wrong_ angle as he fucks Jim into the wall, twisting his fingers around the man’s cock.

Jim is begging by the end, furious and furiously turned on. Moran laughs, wild, free, _dangerous_ , pulls Jim’s hips forward just _so_ and drives into him- once, twice, three times.

Jim throws his head back, hard enough to see stars, and _howls_.

Moran closes his mouth over Jim’s, thrusts his tongue in as he shudders through his own orgasm.

They stay there, panting into each other’s mouths, until the track changes again. Sebastian slips himself out carefully, lowers Moriarty until the man is on his own (shaky) legs against before pulling away.

Their lips separate last, Jim’s eyes fluttering open. They stare at each other for a long moment before Moran’s face cracks into a cheeky smirk.

Moriarty returns the look with a brief, affectionate half-smile. It swiftly turns into a frown as he looks to the ground. “What the hell made you think keeping your shoes on was a good idea?”

Sebastian at least has the good graces to look a little embarrassed, glancing at the dusty footprints he’s left on the newly-vacuumed carpet.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what it is about the Sherlock fandom that makes me write porn and sequels. I used to be perfectly content writing character pieces and one-shots. =( The songs sung are: Hysteria by Muse and Dance, Dance by Fall Out Boy. For a total 'soundtrack' check the thread.


End file.
